


the summer you let your hair grow out

by ladymemebeth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, First Kiss, First Time, GAY/LESBIAN SOLIDARITY, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Summer 1976, just guys being dudes, remus works as a projectionist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2018-11-13 23:54:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11196120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymemebeth/pseuds/ladymemebeth
Summary: an AU story in which sirius decides to go to remus' house when he runs away, rather than james'. remus finds this situation to be trying in more ways than one. includes gratuitous references to twentieth-century cinema and music.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> well lads here's another one!! hopefully it isn't total shit!!
> 
> cw for implied/references to abuse....they are vague as of right now (not that they will ever be needlessly graphic). eventual r/s, natch. will update tags as necessary.

He hears the crash first, but it’s the barking that finally pulls him from his sleep. Groaning, Remus sits up in bed. His dreams had involved his sudden enrollment in a marching band and he had forgotten his sheet music right before the parade was supposed to begin. For a second, he thinks he can hear the lingering echo of the cymbals until he realizes that the unusual noises are very much within reality, coming from just outside his window.

Remus stands and goes to the other side of his room, still wobbly with sleep. He looks down into the garden and has to stop himself from shouting in surprise when he sees the unmistakeable shadow of a big, black dog pacing anxiously among his mother’s flowerbeds. Remus hurries down the stairs, not remembering to skip the squeaky step, and opens the backdoor into the garden.

The dog turns its shaggy head at the sound of the door. “Hey,” Sirius says a moment later, still standing in Mrs. Lupin’s foxgloves. In the eerie glow of the waning gibbous, he looks like a lawn ornament, carved out of faux marble, frozen in the garden. The boys stare at each other. Sirius’ aristocratic face looks especially gaunt in the strange light. In the brief silence that passes between them, Remus is struck by the realization that something is very, very wrong. He steps forward onto the back stoop and makes his way towards Sirius, the grass damp against his bare feet. Putting a hand on Sirius’ upper arm and guiding him gently out of the flowerbed onto the lawn, he says softly: “Sirius.”

The boy sags into him, crushing his face messily into Remus’ chest. For a moment, Remus freezes, unsure how to proceed, but some kind of caretaking instinct kicks in and he says, “You can stay here,” and puts his arms around him. Sirius tries to bury deeper into the grasp with a kind of animal desperation. Remus is vaguely aware of the wet of Sirius’ tears and snot seeping through his pajama shirt onto his chest as they stand like that, silent, in the pool of weak porchlight for what seems like hours.

Eventually, Remus says, “Let’s go inside.” So they do. He leads Sirius up the stairs, his mind prickling with unaskable questions. _What happened? How long? How much? Why now? Why not James? Why me?_ He says nothing, though, only opens the door to his shoebox-sized bedroom and ushers Sirius inside.

Sirius immediately goes to the bed, collapsing limply onto the quilt. Remus follows, kneeling to untie Sirius’ boots, carefully sliding them off his feet and placing them on the floor by the end of the bed. He notices, distractedly, that Sirius’ whole body is trembling with exhaustion. Next he takes off Sirius’ jacket, which he drapes over his desk chair, making a point of smoothing the leather. Sirius’ best things must be treated with care. He sits on the bed. 

“Sirius,” Remus says, but before he can continue, Sirius cuts him off: 

“I’m so sorry, Remus, I didn’t know where to go — I just couldn’t be in that fucking house anymore. I was gonna go to James’ but his parents already do so much for me, summer holidays and all that, and Mrs. Potter is just _too_ nice and James feels sorry for me that my family is such shite and this whole world’s shite and I’m shite ‘cause I was born from shite.” His words all come out like choking, trying to swallow his own bile. 

“I was just going to ask if you wanted to borrow a set of trousers. Pajamas. For sleeping.” Remus gestures towards Sirius’ jeans. “Not very comfortable.”

Sirius barks out a laugh. “It doesn’t matter. I could fall asleep standing up after all that running. I was gonna sleep in the garden, as Padfoot, you know, really, but I knocked over a flower pot and it made a loud noise and then I figured I had probably fucking woken you up, so.” He looks up at Remus, who is still sat at the end of the bed, picking at a hangnail on the side of his thumb. “I’m really, really sorry, mate. I didn’t know what to do.” He rolls over on his back, stares straight up at the ceiling. “You always know what to do, Remus.” 

Remus sighs. “You don’t have to apologize.” After a pause, he crawls under the covers and closes his eyes and listens to the sound of Sirius moving, the clink of his belt hitting the floor, settling in beside him. Remus is not used to having a living thing in his bed with him, especially not one as fragile as Sirius, who is still shivering violently. Remus pets awkwardly at his shoulder for a moment and then says, “Here,” draws Sirius to him. Boneless, doll-like, Sirius complies, relaxing slightly into Remus’s chest. He thinks of the summer weekends he used to spend with his Muggle aunt and uncle in Wales, where he and his cousins would stay up late into the night, crowded into one bed. Passing around a torch, Sarah, Penelope, and Alexander would compete with one another to try to tell the scariest stories — of ghosts, and witches, and evil spirits that emerged, wailing, from the sea — until inevitably one of them would get too frightened and demand, tears edging into his or her voice, that they stop telling stupid tales and go to sleep. The stories never scared Remus (their wild inaccuracies regarding magic and ghosts were utterly ridiculous) but he played along, arranging his face into appropriately shocked expressions as his cousins shrieked at one another until, at last, they would crowd under the comforter and try to sleep despite the imminent threat of the bogeyman lurking outside their cottage. Penelope, the youngest, often found herself the most frightened (though she would never admit it to her brother and sister), and Remus would stroke her long red hair until she fell into a fitful sleep. Remus reflects, briefly, bitterly, on the irony of the people in his life always depending on him, a Dark Creature capable of unthinkable destruction, to put things back together, make things right. Part of him knows he should be grateful for it, that he is still trusted instead of reviled. The other part of him doesn’t know what he would want instead.

Sirius whines in his sleep, a high-pitched, mournful sound through his nose not unlike the noises Padfoot makes when upset. Remus feels his heartbeat slow against his palm where it rests on Sirius’ chest. He closes his eyes against the darkness of his bedroom and tries to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Remus wakes the next morning to the sound of another person shuffling around the room. He wonders, irritated, what his mother is doing in his bedroom before remembering. Sirius. Standing in the garden. His shivering body. He sits up.

Sirius is sat at Remus’ desk, flipping through a paperback. Remus squints and sees that  it is _The City and the Pillar_ , and he flushes, lying back on the bed. He wonders how far into the book he’s gotten. Knowing Sirius, he’s probably already gone through all of Remus’ books, his entire record collection, and his secret diary from when he was nine. 

“It’s pretty good,” says Sirius, not turning around. He runs his thumb over the edge of the book so the pages flutter against each other. “It’s good, but it’s fucking sad.”

“Yeah,” says Remus, rubbing his eyes. “Sirius, I — how long have you been up?”

“Oh, I dunno. An hour, maybe. Sorry if I woke you.”

“S’alright,” says Remus, his voice creaky as he sits up again. “Do you want tea? I, er...I ought to talk to my parents. I really don’t think they’ll mind, but… Wait here a moment.”

He finds his parents in the kitchen, his mother smoking a cigarette as she pours a cup of coffee, probably her third this morning. His father is sitting at the table with the latest copy of _The Daily Prophet_ spread out before him. The photographs flicker dimly out of the corner of Remus’ eye as he approaches his mother, quickly kissing the side of her head. “‘Morning,” he says, itchy for the coffee just out of reach in her hand.

“Good morning!” she says. “You’re up early for a weekend, Mister Sleepyhead. Do you want coffee? Tea? I’m afraid your father’s eaten what was left of the scones, but I’m sure we could whip something up…Eggs?”

“Actually, I, er — I kind of need to tell you something.”

“Oh?” She narrows her green eyes slightly, cuts her gaze to her husband. 

“Lay it on us, boy,” says Mr. Lupin, friendly. What could their model son possibly have done wrong?

“Well...We may or may not be currently housing a fugitive.”

“Hmm,” Mr. Lupin says. He looks at Remus, then Mrs. Lupin, over the top of his tortoiseshell glasses. “And I suppose it’s for a very good reason?”

“It’s Sirius,” Remus continues, as if this were a sufficient explanation. He tries belatedly to gauge how much his parents already suspect about Sirius’ home life, the bits and pieces they’ve heard through Remus’ vague comments over the years. “He — I think he’s run away from home.”

“Oh, goodness,” gasps Mrs. Lupin. “Is he alright?”

“He’s tired more than anything, really. I think.” Remus runs a hand through his hair. He wishes his mother would stop looking at him like that, her eyes practically brimming over with pity. “Do you think he could stay with us? Just for a bit,” he adds.

Mrs. Lupin sighs and turns to her husband, who looks back at her plaintively. Remus can practically hear the twin gears of their brains working to figure out the added expenses of another teenage boy living in their house, and he feels that familiar cold rush of shame in his belly. The Potters would have taken him in, no questions asked. Sirius explained why he didn’t go to them, but Remus can’t shake the feeling that he is a grossly inadequate person for the role of Sirius Black’s caretaker. 

“Well, if he hasn’t got anywhere else to go, we certainly can’t turn him away, isn’t that right, Lyall?” Mrs. Lupin says, more to her husband than to Remus. Mr. Lupin grunts in agreement and turns back to the paper.

Remus leans in to give his mother a quick hug, avoiding the lit cigarette. “Thank you. Really. I didn’t — It was sort of unexpected, Mum,” he says, lowering his voice slightly, wondering if Sirius is stationed at the top of the stairs, listening in the way children do. “I think something really awful happened.”

Mrs. Lupin puts her hand on her son’s shoulder. “You’re a good friend, Remus.”

“Thanks, Mum,” he mumbles, and slides away from them, back up the stairs.

Sirius is elegantly propped up by an elbow on his bed when Remus steps back into his room, tracing patterns in the quilt with his index finger. Remus glances around the room and tries to see it from a visitor’s perspective. The sunbleached wallpaper covered by posters (mostly Muggle films, though there is a Chudley Cannons flag that James had given to him for Christmas one year, claiming that there was no way he was supposed to keep track of which books Remus had and hadn’t already read) and photographs (of the Marauders in various unflattering poses, and a few of his family on his mother’s side). Letters and postcards, most of them from Lily and Peter but some from James and Sirius and even his cousins in Wales, tacked to the wall above his desk. The dark shelves teeming with books and knickknacks. Dust-collectors, his father calls them, all the funny-looking antiques that Remus has discovered and squirreled away over the years: a salt and pepper shaker set made to look like a pair of songbirds, a small, spinning globe with fascinatingly inaccurate topographies. On the left side of his desk next to a pile of textbooks, Remus’ turntable, his most prized possession. The cardboard box of records at the foot of his bed. Sirius looks out of place in the sunny, cramped room full of old-fashioned things. His leather jacket really clashes with the décor, Remus thinks, and smiles slightly.

“What’s so funny?” asks Sirius. He tries to look casual, but there is a frightened sort of yearning in his body, unsure of whether he will be allowed to stay. A dog that remains close but ducks its head when you go to pat it.

“Your leather jacket really clashes with the décor of my room,” explains Remus.

Sirius laughs. “Merlin, you really are a poof.”

Feeling himself redden, Remus snatches the pillow from his bed and smacks it against the side of Sirius’ head. “Shut up. Like you’re one to talk.”

“ _Moi?_ ” says Sirius, pressing his hand against his collarbone. “ _Pas possible!_ ” Remus regards him, trying to discern how much of this is mockery, the way he always does when the conversation turns to this kind of making fun. If it is making fun.

“My parents said you can stay,” Remus says. 

Sirius’ eyes go wide then crinkle up in delight. “Oh, thank god. I was so fucking worried. Really, Remus, you’re a fucking lifesaver. Thank you,” he says, his voice dipping into earnesty. He stands up, embraces Remus in a fierce hug. “Thank you so much.”

Remus gently pries him off, wondering how the small boy who stood weeping in his mother’s garden last night could be the same as this creature before him, full of energy and expectation. His thoughts drift to the night, how easily Sirius folded into him. It doesn't quite feel like a real memory, but a scene in a film he had mistakenly filed away in his mind as having actually happened to him. “It’s alright. That’s what mates are for, yeah? Saving each other from shit situations.” He smiles in an attempt to ignore the questions still looming in his mind. “I will warn you, however — I don’t think my parents will take to your liberal use of curse words.”

Sirius laughs. “So they must not know about _your_ sailor mouth, then.”

“Oh, please,” says Remus, waving a hand. “How do you think I manage being a Prefect and model student while staying friends with you lot? I am the master of contextual politeness. A conversational chameleon, if you will.”

The boys go downstairs to sniff out breakfast, and Mrs. Lupin happily provides them with coffee (Remus) and tea (Sirius) while Mr. Lupin offers their guest the sports section of the newspaper. Remus watches Sirius lie through his teeth to Mrs. Lupin, chatting pleasantly about how unreliable the Knight Bus is. Remus isn’t even sure how Sirius had managed to find the Lupins’ home, which is hours outside of London. Maybe Sirius had used his tracking skills as Padfoot to locate them — he had visited once, during winter break of their third year, but Remus hardly thinks that would be enough to be able to find them again, across multiple county lines. Still, Sirius is nothing if not determined, capable of nearly anything if he really and truly gives a shit about it. Remus is aware, distantly, of the pull in his chest as he watches Sirius clench his fingers around the fork and knife, having neatly placed his napkin on his lap the instant he sat down: the violently ingrained, high-society manners that always come creeping back, no matter how hard Sirius tries to destroy that person within him. Around authority figures, Sirius is notorious for his flippant attitude, constantly riling up even the most austere professors, but in the presence of parents, he just shrinks, ever so slightly. For the millionth time in his life, Remus sends his thanks out to whatever forces of the universe that are responsible for providing him with parents who love him unconditionally, the way parents should.

After breakfast, Remus shows Sirius to the bathroom so he can finally wash off the stink of having traveled several dozen kilometers in one night. Once Remus hears the water running, he goes to his room and pulls a piece of parchment out of his desk drawer. He writes,

 

> _Lily —_
> 
> _In a bizarre turn of events, it seems the Lupin family is now four instead of three. Sirius showed up in the middle of the night and won’t talk about why he left home. I don’t know what to do. I know you’re probably enjoying summer sans unexpected house guests, but I’m rather at a loss. Write back when you get the chance._
> 
> _— RJL xx_

 

He knows it’s a bit off to tell Lily about Sirius’ worrisome antics, especially before alerting James or even Peter, but it feels like less of a betrayal to him. In spite of everything, Lily remains an impartial audience, at least when Remus is involved. They’ve grown close to one another since the beginning of fifth year, as they were usually assigned to carry out their Prefect-ly duties together, despite James’ constant pleas for Remus to “put in a good word for him.” Besides, he doesn’t know who else he could even write to. Remus isn’t sure if James knows about Sirius’ plan at all, and Sirius would be livid if he didn’t get to be the one to break such dramatic news to him. Lily will have something kind and thoughtful to say at the very least. Remus exhales loudly and folds the letter into an envelope to mail later, tucking it into one of his textbooks, which he knows are the one thing Sirius will never try to paw through.

There’s a knock at his bedroom door. “Are you decent?” Sirius calls, sing-song, through the flimsy wood. Remus rolls his eyes.

“Yes,” he says. 

Sirius steps inside, wearing just a towel around his slim hips, looking sheepish. “I, er, realized I didn’t exactly think to pack an overnight bag.” He spreads the hand that isn’t holding the towel up in a gesture of helplessness. “Could I borrow some clothes?”

Remus goes to his closet, glad to have an excuse to be looking at something other than Sirius. He is acutely aware of the heat that rushes to his face when Sirius and James run around the dorm in their underwear, careless in their nudity the way teenage boys ought to be, and the confused roiling of his stomach that’s been there since he was twelve. How tragically obvious he must be. He doesn’t quite hate it, not anymore. He has come to know it, a part of him that does not go away, and so he must accept it. Some things do not change: the moon remains in the sky, and Remus’ heart remains in his throat when Sirius looks at him like that, with so much sincerity a person could drown in it, as he hands him a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the city and the pillar is a book by gore vidal about a young man coming to terms with his sexuality.


	3. Chapter 3

They spend the the better part of the day in amicable silence, comfortable in the other’s presence. By late afternoon, however, Remus can tell that Sirius is getting bored of watching Remus read from the way he keeps throwing himself on various furniture around the house and sighing dramatically. 

“Remus,” Sirius whines, dropping himself at the foot of Remus’ bed. Remus merely shifts his position to avoid the incoming projectile of Sirius’ body. “Is this really what you do all summer? Sit around and _read_?”

“You like reading,” Remus points out. He doesn’t take his eyes off the page as he talks, which he knows annoys Sirius to no end. “You’re welcome to borrow a book if you’re bored.”

“I only like to read when I’m supposed to be doing something else. Like homework.” Remus rolls his eyes as he turns the page. “Besides, summer isn’t about sitting indoors and reading. Summer is for _adventures_.”

“I think I experience enough of your ‘adventures’ during the school year. Summer holidays are supposed to be holidays — you know, taking a break? Anyway, I _do_ things. I take walks.”

Sirius makes a face as if to say _you poor, devastatingly boring creature_.

“I visit my family in Wales, sometimes. I watch telly. I help my parents around the house. I go to work.”

“Work?” Sirius repeats.

Remus answers the follow-up question before it even forms on Sirius’ tongue. “It’s only part-time. They let me choose my hours, basically, so it’s easy to schedule around…” He stops. “I work in a theatre. A Muggle cinema,” he adds when Sirius furrows his brow, trying to remember if he had somehow missed a grand opera house in the tiny seaside town when he had traveled through it last night. “It’s just a little thing. One auditorium, you know. The owners, Jo and Paul, they’re lovely. Jo is a witch, but Paul’s a Muggle.” Cinema isn’t big in the Wizarding world — movie magic sort of pales in comparison to real-life magic — but Remus maintains a childlike fondness for it, can still feel a tiny, joyful part of himself unfurl when the lights dim inside the theatre. 

Peter had convinced James and Sirius to see _Jaws_ with him when they were on holiday with the Potters’ this past winter, and they had disparaged the quality of the robotic shark for days afterwards. 

“You’re saying that people were _afraid_ of that thing?” James had groused at his parents’ New Year’s Eve party, slightly drunk off a stolen bottle of sparkling wine. “Muggles are pathetic. I saw scarier stuff in Care of Magical Creatures, and I was in _third_ year.”

“Well, I thought it was good,” Peter had said flatly, knowing it was futile to defend his opinion now that James and Sirius had deemed it incorrect.

“Besides, all the hot birds got eaten by the shark,” continued James. “So what’s the point?”

“You know, there are special cinemas you can go to if all you’re interested in is ‘hot birds,’” Remus had cut in, and the three boys brightened with interest. “If you want to wank alongside a dozen other perverts in a darkened room.”

“Yech,” said James. Peter still looked mildly intrigued. Sirius just smirked.

Back in the present, Remus tries to tell whether Sirius is surprised by the fact that he can hold a semi-regular job. _See, I can be normal, too_ , he thinks, and then immediately feels sorry when he remembers the very reason he’s even having this conversation with Sirius is due to his friend’s abnormal situation. In fact, nothing about Sirius’ life is particularly normal at all; he and Remus have both envied the ordinariness, the stability, of James’ and even Peter’s lives for as long as they have known them. 

“I’m glad for you,” says Sirius. “I didn’t know you worked during the summer. Getting money and all that. It’s really good, mate.”

“You never asked,” replies Remus, and returns to his book.

***

When it comes time for bed late that night, Remus tries to hide the embarrassment he can feel creeping into his face as he shows Sirius what’s meant to be his “guest bed:” a pile of sofa cushions on the floor of Remus’ bedroom. Mr. Lupin chats mindlessly with Sirius as he casts various cushioning charms on the pillows, not appearing to find anything shameful about the situation. _Sirius probably slept on a handcrafted goose feather mattress at 12 Grimmauld Place_ , Remus speculates, and again has to chastise himself for thinking this way. The world’s most comfortable bed would still feel like a grave to Sirius if it were in that house.

Satisfied with his handiwork, Mr. Lupin bids the boys a goodnight, waving as he steps into the hallway, and Remus thinks it all rather childish. A slumber party of two. He stands in the corner of his room to change into his pajamas, staring at his _Rebel Without a Cause_ poster as he does so. James Dean’s brooding face looks back out at him, lips slightly parted, eyes squinted in an almost quizzical expression. Remus wishes, not for the first time, that the poster were a magic one, so that his likeness wasn’t so disappointingly stationary. 

“Who is that?” Sirius asks, coming up behind Remus, who starts.

Remus extends an arm and points to the spot on the poster where it says JAMES DEAN in huge typeface. “Barely a month away from school and you’ve already reverted to illiteracy?” Remus says, smiling. “He’s a Muggle actor. He —”

“He’s fit,” says Sirius. 

Remus coughs. “He died.”

“Pity. A sexy corpse, then.”

“Probably not. It was a really terrible car accident. He liked cars the way you like 

motorcycles, famous for it.” Remus shrugs. “He was twenty-four.”

Sirius hums noncommittally as the two of them stare at the poster for a moment longer, as intently as two visitors might pore over a painting in an expensive art gallery. Eventually, Remus turns away to go brush his teeth in the bathroom across the hall. Sirius follows him and they brush their teeth side by side (Sirius with a spare toothbrush Mrs. Lupin had found in the medicine cabinet), elbows bumping in the cramped room. They make eye contact in the mirror, and Sirius laughs, sending toothpaste flying everywhere. Remus rolls his eyes and grins, smile full of foam. 

Back in the bedroom, Remus watches Sirius spends several minutes getting comfortable on his makeshift bed, not unlike a dog pacing in circles before going to sleep. He turns out the light and the room plunges into darkness, save for a thin strip of moonlight spilling out from beneath the window ledge.

“Goodnight, Sirius,” says Remus. 

“Sweet dreams,” says Sirius.

***

Sometime in the middle of the night, partway between sleeping and waking, Remus feels a sudden weight sink into the mattress beside him. He opens his eyes and squints at Sirius, who is kneeling on his bed.

“Was sleeping on the floor not comfortable? I’m shocked,” Remus jokes groggily.

Sirius stares at him. In the half light of what could either be considered very late at night or very early in the morning, Remus can just barely make out the outline of Sirius hovering above him, his dark hair a tangle floating slightly above his head like a halo. His eyes are huge. Remus scoots over on the bed and lifts up a corner of his quilt, allowing Sirius to burrow next to him underneath the covers.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius says in a tiny voice. He curls into Remus, who tries very hard not to flinch away from the touch. He tells himself to breathe normally. _It’s just Sirius_ , he reminds himself, which is exactly the problem, of course. Seeing Sirius like this for the second night in a row, so vulnerable and nervous, reminds him too much of himself. It reminds him of the panic that he feels crawling in his gut as he lies barechested on the clean white sheets in the hospital wing, swaddled in bandages like a newborn, every month when his friends visit him after the full moon. How the sound of their voices jangling together like a bell announcing their arrival makes him want to scream, to tear off the gauze and run away to a place where no one will be able to look at him or his body ever again.

“It’s okay, Sirius,” he hears himself saying. He keeps his arm rigid against his side and tries to guess why this feels different than last night. Maybe it was the rush of emergency, or his overtiredness and shock at Sirius’ presence mixing into someone who wanted to be touched, or his bone-familiar desire to fix broken things instead of trying to heal himself. Some combination of all of them, probably, he thinks.

Sirius rolls over so his body nestles properly into Remus’, sighing contentedly as he does. They lie like that for several moments until he suddenly reaches back and tugs at Remus’ wrist. Remus wonders if Sirius can feel the uneven thrum of his pulse as he adjusts his arm to lay draped over Sirius’ shoulders, whether he’s already mostly asleep, too knackered to notice what Remus feels is his palpable nervousness. _It’s no different than last night_ , he scolds himself silently, staring at the spill of Sirius’ hair over his pillow. Except Sirius could have just slept on the sofa cushions tonight, he thinks, and briefly hates himself. Unlike Remus, Sirius craves touch, physical comfort, a warm body beside him. He comes crashing into people’s personal space; everyone knows that. But Remus can’t shake the thought that Sirius chose _him_ , chose to come here, in his time of need, and shouldn’t he be glad of it? Just a little, not gloating, but glad that he was someone’s — _Sirius’_ — choice, instead of a burden foisted upon them? Remus stops just short of groaning theatrically into Sirius’ neck and instead tells himself to go to sleep and stop bloody overthinking everything. He focuses on the smell of Sirius’ hair, which is mostly Remus’ own shampoo, but there are notes of something uniquely Sirius underneath it, soft and familiar. The kind of smell that lingers. 

When he wakes the next morning, Remus finds himself tucked beneath Sirius’ armpit, curled into his side. He looks at his hand on Sirius’ belly and flexes his fingers experimentally, as if to test some membrane of reality, see if he isn’t still dreaming. He knows that soon Sirius will stop snoring and they will return to this version of their lives, where they pretend that this, all of this, is fine, isn’t something that ought to be talked about. Remus watches the rise and fall of Sirius’ chest and tries not to think at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "jaws" was released on boxing day in the UK (apparently) which i think is so funny because i can't imagine a single movie that is less appropriate for celebrating the spirit of christmas/winter holidays than one about a shark terrorizing martha's vineyard in the middle of july.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "d*ke" is used in this chapter when a lesbian says it in reference to herself, just a heads up!

On Wednesday, Remus wakes up slightly earlier than usual to shower and shave before work, the latter of which has only recently been added to his morning routine. He nicks himself on the chin near his lower lip and watches the blood eke out of himself in the mirror, sighing. _That’s nothing_ , he thinks, and doesn’t look at the silvery scar that stretches from below his jaw up to his right temple. When he walks into the kitchen, he pretends not to see the way Sirius’ gaze lingers on Remus’ mouth ever-so-briefly as he notices the fresh scab. He and Sirius eat breakfast (jam on toast) with Mrs. Lupin, who seems to enjoy the slight shift in family dynamics that comes with two teenage boys in the house instead of just one. Remus knows, vaguely, that his mother always wanted more children, that she dreamt of one day having an enormous family when she was a little girl, so he imagines that she likes hearing the chatter of him and Sirius bickering with each other upstairs as she gardens. Sirius is still shy around her and Mr. Lupin, overly polite in conversation, but there are brief moments where he seems to relax, his shoulders slack in the position with which Remus is so familiar. 

After breakfast, he and Sirius walk downtown to the theatre. He knows that Sirius has been putting off going to Gringotts because it will require him to Floo back to London — even in this little town hours outside the city, Sirius moves with the air of a hunted man, a constant shroud of wariness. Remus watches as he glances into the windows of storefronts as if expecting to see a member of his family posted up inside, just waiting to trap him again. Part of Remus wants to tell him that he doubts the Black family would waste their precious Pureblood time on their runaway Gryffindor son, but another part of him thinks Sirius already knows that, and somehow that’s worse. 

“This is it,” Remus says when they arrive at the theatre. “I told you it wasn’t that impressive.”

But Sirius seems enthralled by the chintzy spectacle of the theatre, the reflective gold of its wide double doors and tiny round lightbulbs that frame the marquee, currently advertising _Taxi Driver_ in big, blocky letters. He grins at the neon sign, which reads _Le Cinéma_ in purple script, and Remus can’t help but feel a twinge of pride, glad that Sirius is impressed by this one part of his life that he really loves.

Remus opens the door and ducks inside. “Hello!” he calls to what seems like an empty lobby with a box office immediately to the right of the entrance. The box office’s window is framed with a gaudy, filigree-style pattern etched into the moulding. Further into the room, there is a countertop with a glass display of various sweets inside: jelly babies, bubblegum, bon bons, flying saucers, milk teeth. A popcorn maker and a sodajerk stand behind the counter like two confectionary sentinels. Stretched out over the floor of the lobby is a rather ugly carpet, black and what might have been gold but is now more of a muddy yellow, in an art-deco pattern that zigzags towards the door leading to the single auditorium. The whole room seems to maintain a rather confused aesthetic rather than a purposefully eclectic one, but Remus thinks it has a strange kind of charm. 

There is a muffled crash somewhere beneath them, then the sound of footsteps on metal stairs. A woman emerges from the basement, carrying a cardboard box.

“Hi, Jo,” says Remus. “I hope you don’t mind, I’ve brought my friend Sirius along with me today. He’s, er — he’s vacationing with me for a bit, so I thought I’d show him around.”

Jo makes an attempt at a shrug despite the large box in her hands. She smiles, flashing a gap in her front teeth that Remus always finds delightful. “Oh, sure, don’t worry, love. A friend of Remus’ is a friend of ours.” She eyes Sirius as she sets the box down on the concessions counter, one thin brow arched behind her eyeglasses. Her silvery-blond hair is closely cropped, curling slightly at the nape of her neck, and long turquoise earrings dangle from her earlobes. “What did you say your name was?”

“Sirius.” He extends a hand, which Jo shakes curtly. “Sirius Black.”

“I’m Josephine, but you can just call me Jo. Everyone does.” She leans against the

counter and folds her arms over her chest. “So you go to school with Remus?”

“Yeah, we’re roommates at Hogw — at boarding school.”

Jo laughs. “It’s alright, love. I know all about Hogwarts. I’m a witch, as they say, so you don’t have to worry about accidentally revealing any cosmic secrets to me. I already know ‘em all.”

“Remus! Who’s this?” cries a warm voice from the direction of the auditorium. A tall woman, clad in paint-smeared dungarees, a sizable Afro encircling her head like a crown, crosses the lobby to greet them. She gives Remus a hug and turns to Sirius. “I’m Paul,” she says. “Pauline, but you know how it goes.”

“I’m Sirius.” He glances between the two women. “So, you two run the theatre together?”

“Yes,” says Jo. “I inherited it from my parents — they were both Muggles. I think it sort of killed them to leave it in my care, but who else was gonna do it? Cinema is dying, anyway, though I’m sure Remus here would spend hours with you arguing about that.” She reaches into the cardboard box and starts taking out cartons of candy. “By the way, the neighbor’s daughter is coming in today to help out with concessions and clean-up and all that rot. You remember Andrea, right?”

“Jesus, I hope we don’t get too many customers today. Otherwise it’s going to be awful crowded in here,” Paul jokes, leaning over the counter and snatching a box of jelly babies out of Jo’s hand. She tears it open and pops a handful of candy into her mouth. Her grin reveals faint laugh lines around her eyes, and Remus feels a bright spot of warmth in his chest, glad to be here with them, with Sirius. 

“Pauline!” Jo says. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay you back the 1p.” She holds out the box to Sirius and Remus, rattling it. “Want some? On the house.” Behind her, Jo rolls her eyes.

“Actually, I kind of need to use the toilet, if you don’t mind,” Sirius says. Paul wordlessly points a finger in the direction of the bathrooms, which are tastefully cordoned off from the rest of the lobby with a frilly lace curtain, another utterly mismatched detail. 

Once they hear the door close behind Sirius, Jo and Paul immediately turn to Remus, descending upon him like vultures. It seems to him that no matter their age, people will pounce on an opportunity to gossip, especially about their friends’ love lives.

“So,” says Jo, brown eyes glowing. “He’s quite handsome, isn’t he?” When Remus only looks at her with a face he hopes does not betray his agreement, she continues, “What? I may be a dyke, but I’m not _blind_.”

Paul shoves her shoulder into Jo’s. “I can’t believe we finally get to meet _the_ Sirius Black. It’s sort of like being in the presence of a celebrity, innit?” She leans over, tousles Remus’ hair. “No, really, he seems lovely.”

Remus looks down at his tennis shoes. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up. He likes girls. Anyway, we’re best mates, you know? I don’t want to fuck that up.”

Jo makes a _tch_ sound against her teeth, twisting her thin lips in thought. “I don’t know. He has a certain _je ne sais quoi_ , but maybe I’m just imagining it.”

“He did say that he thought James Dean was fit,” Remus says.

Paul and Jo look at each other and raise their eyebrows. Paul opens her mouth to say something when Sirius sidles over to them.

“Sorry, erm, there weren’t any towels left,” he says, somewhat sheepishly, when he sees the three of them glance simultaneously at his dripping hands.

“At least we know he washed up afterwards,” Jo says. “I think we’ve got paper towels somewhere around here.”

After restocking the bathrooms’ amenities, Remus leads Sirius up a short flight of stairs to the projection box. Again, Remus tries to imagine the familiar space through Sirius’ eyes, the bulky machinery that must look so alien to him, the haphazard organization of the old film reels stacked on top of one another on the far wall of the narrow room. Remus goes over to the table and carefully lifts one of the reels out of its case. He turns to Sirius, offering the free end of the film to him like it is a gift.

“See?” he says. He holds the film up to the dim overhead light. “It’s all still images, but when you run the reel through the shutter and you see it in there,” gesturing with his chin towards the hole in the wall aligned with the lens of the projector, “it looks like they’re moving, because it’s faster than the human eye can process.” 

Sirius leans in closer, squinting at the tiny pictures.

Remus goes on, “If we were flies, it would look like one image, and then a black frame for ages, and then another slightly different image. It would be proper boring, so I guess it’s a good thing that our eyesight hasn't evolved that quickly.” He smiles. “It’s rather neat, though, yeah?”

Sirius nods. “Are they together?”

Remus lowers his arms, sets the film reel back in its case. “Hmm?”

“Jo and — Jo and Paul.” He glances backwards over his shoulder at the door, as if the two women were standing there, watching.

“You mean, are they lovers? Yes,” Remus says, reproachful, unable to determine the expression on Sirius’ face. 

“Oh,” says Sirius. “I’ve never —”

“They’re just people, Sirius,” he says, his voice coming out harsher than he intends. He doesn’t want to have this conversation right now. He wants to sit in the darkness of the projection box and watch the flickering green glow of Travis Bickle’s descent into madness through the hole in the wall and not think about Sirius for just one moment. He walks over to the projector and fiddles with it.

“I _know_ that. Merlin. I was just going to say I don’t think that I’ve ever met a… lesbian couple before. But now I have. See, Moony, you’re always broadening my horizons!” He smiles, but Remus’ face remains blank.

“It’s really not a big deal. Like I said, they’re just people. And Jo will absolutely kick your arse if she hears you talking shit, so.”

“Remus,” Sirius says, in a way that makes him look up from where he was inspecting the dowser. 

“Yes?” he says, trying not to sound irritated.

“I’m not going to talk shit about your friends because they’re gay. I would never do something like that, okay? So don’t… don’t let that distract you from whatever it is you have to do with that thing to make it show the little pictures. ‘Cause it’s not gonna happen.” Sirius sticks out his jaw, defiant, daring Remus to continue the discussion.

“Okay,” Remus sighs. He tries to ease that defensive feeling, tight in his shoulders. “There are four showings today.”

Remus shows Sirius how the projector system works, explaining multiple times why they can’t just cast some sort of spell to keep the movies running continuously — Jo would never admit it, but she’s too much of a purist, and besides, Remus likes it, how he has to keep an eye on the picture downstairs and the film as it runs through the machine. It’s a bit like listening to a record — the physical interaction with the music as one flips from side A to side B. Remus likes the tangibility of the film, how he can touch something that just becomes light and pictures. It reminds him of magic. The boys relax in the dark together during the screenings, silent except for the rustling sound of a bag of popcorn being passed between them, and Sirius’ loud chewing. Remus, feeling gracious, allows Sirius to sit closer to the projector for the majority of the time so he can watch the movie as it’s playing in the cinema down below them. He thinks it's as good an apology as any for being cross earlier. In the interim, Sirius monologues at Remus, asking questions about the film and providing his general opinions which Remus refuses to hear while the movie is actually playing, much to Sirius’ chagrin. “The main bloke’s haircut at the end was wicked, yeah? You think I could pull off a mohawk like that, Moony?” He mimes pointing a gun at the wall above Remus’ head, and Remus smiles in spite of himself. 

It's a bit strange, having Sirius in this private space, having the energy of another person in the projection box when he's so used to spending his days at the cinema in solitude. If he’s being honest, he's used to spending his whole summer mostly alone, besides his parents and brief visits with his cousins — he hadn't been lying to Sirius when he said he finds things to do to pass the time, but it isn't exactly like he's got dozens of friends in town to phone and invite out. He wonders, not for the first time this week, how long Sirius plans on staying. He knows his parents will try to accommodate their guest for as long as possible, but more than that, Remus wants to know why Sirius left in the first place. _It isn't your business_ , he reminds himself as he watches Sirius shake the last of the popcorn into his mouth, the majority of the kernels missing their target and falling down the front of his shirt. He wishes Sirius could trust him enough to tell him what happened, or at least let him know if he's okay. A tiny voice at the back of his mind remarks, rather petulantly, that Remus trusted Sirius enough to tell him _his_ horrible secret, but Remus knows, rational as ever, that that isn't fair. Besides, it's not like Remus tells Sirius everything. Far from it, he admits as Sirius lifts up his shirt to deposit the fallen popcorn on the floor. 

Just then, the door to the projection box opens, and an auburn head pokes in. “Oh,” says Andrea, when she sees Sirius, who lowers his shirt quickly. “Hi Remus, hi…?”

“Sirius,” Remus says. “My mate from school.”

“Hi, Sirius,” Andrea says in a sweet voice, putting out her hand for Sirius to shake. “Remus, you have to remind me where you go to school, because the boys certainly aren't this good-looking at _my_ uni.”

Color rises in Sirius’ high cheeks, and Remus would think it was horribly charming, if it weren't for the way Sirius is also looking at Andrea’s red halter top. “Er, we go to school in Scotland, but we've not yet graduated. Sirius and I are roommates.”

“How fun. I’ve just finished my first year at Queen Mary, so I won’t be a fresher anymore, thank _god_.” She swings her curly hair over her shoulder and sighs dramatically. “Paul told me to tell you that you don’t have to stay for the late-night screening. She says that you ought to be able to spend time with your guest.” Her voice curls up at the end, sing-songy, but not mocking. She smiles. “Shall I accompany you boys downstairs?”

“Only if Sirius cleans up his mess first,” Remus says, and reaches for the dustpan in the corner of the room.

They follow her back into the lobby, where Jo and Paul are waiting. Paul gives both Remus and Sirius a hug in goodbye, and Jo wiggles her fingers at them, smirking slightly. “I’ll get you your pay next week, alright, love?” she says to Remus, who nods. They’re almost out the door when Andrea suddenly calls Remus’ name. He shrugs at Sirius and jogs back to the concession stand.

“Look, I don’t want to step on any toes, so I’ve just got to ask, are you two…?” Andrea says in a low voice. She expertly avoids looking over Remus’ shoulder at Sirius, who seems oblivious to the interaction.

“Are we what?”

“You know…”

“ _No!_ ” Remus hisses when he realizes what she is trying to ask. His face feels hot.

“Well, I don’t know, Remus, you’ve never brought _friends_ to the cinema before. And _don’t_ start,” she adds, seeing his mouth open in protest. “You and I both know that Josephine wouldn’t have hired a heterosexual if my mum hadn’t been such a twat about me getting a job. I think it’s cool! I just wanted to ask, ‘cause, well. I’m sure you know why.”

Remus likes Andrea, he really does. She pops in and out of the cinema with some frequency, and she’s always been friendly towards him, even going so far as to invite him out to pizza once or twice last summer. There’s something unnervingly casual about her: she’s one of those people that just seems to float, unperturbed, through life. She would be good for Sirius, in another world, he thinks. 

“Andrea, between you and me, I don’t know if now’s the right time. He’s, er, going through a lot right now.” This sounds like a sensible reason, rather than a defense tactic.

“Alright.” She looks vaguely disappointed, but her voice remains cheerful. “I thought I’d ask. Carry on, then.” She salutes him, grinning. “Have a nice dinner, boys!” she calls after him, as he and Sirius step out onto the street.

“What did she want?” Sirius asks when arrive at the crosswalk. 

Remus considers lying for a moment, then decides to go with a half-truth: “She thinks you’re handsome, obviously, and she was curious as to, you know, whether you’re available.” He watches Sirius’ face for some kind of tell, but he seems nonplussed.

“What did you say?”

“I said it probably isn’t such a good idea at the moment.” He braces himself for Sirius’ reaction, whatever it may be.

Again, Sirius seems indifferent. “Huh. You’re probably right about that.”

“You don’t think she’s pretty?”

“I mean, yeah, she’s _pretty_ , but…” Sirius shrugs. “Not really my type. Besides, she looks way too much like Evans. James’d kill me if I got with a redhead while he spent the whole summer with his dick in his hand.”

Remus wants to ask him what exactly his type is, but he stays quiet. They walk back to the Lupins’ house in the growing dusk, Sirius humming the saxophone bit from _Taxi Driver_. Another week passes with little fanfare. Sirius goes back to London to empty his bank account and buy provisions for the summer. Lily writes back, apologizing for the delay. _You are a kind and strong person_ , she writes, _which is why people go to you, but you mustn’t forget to take care of yourself, too. Life can’t always be about looking out for others, as much as we all appreciate it — if there is such a thing as good karma, you are fully stocked up on it._ Included in the letter are many artfully doodled hearts, several pressed flowers, and a Muggle photograph of Lily, who stands on a beach in a yellow bathing suit, arms outstretched as if to greet someone in the distance. Her little sister Petunia is a dark smudge off to the side. On the back she has written _Missing you in N. Ireland, July ‘76. P.S. Do NOT give this to James!!_ Remus doesn’t blame Lily for her brevity, and he is touched by her compliments (unfounded, he thinks), but he wishes he had someone to talk to about his new living arrangements and the effects they're having on his psyche. Mrs. Lupin coaxes Sirius into helping her in the garden, which Sirius enjoys, if only for the opportunity to repeatedly spray Remus with the garden hose as he sits in the shade with a book. Their nights always begin with them saying goodnight to each other, Remus in his bed and Sirius below him on the floor. Their mornings often begin with Remus sitting up to crack his back, having slept funny, body rigid, due to another boy lying beside him in his bed. 

They don’t talk about it. Instead they listen to records, and spend time at the cinema with Jo and Paul and Andrea, and eat Mrs. Lupin’s baked goods, and Remus feels okay, feels grateful even, to be spending this time with his friend. But then there are other moments when he looks at Sirius across the room from him, leg slung casually over the side of Mr. Lupin’s armchair, and Remus feels like there is a hand around his throat, fingertips pressing into the vulnerable skin. He wonders how much more of this closeness he can bear. Without the buffer of James, Peter, and the rest of the Hogwarts student body, Remus consistently has Sirius’ full attention for the first time in his life, and he is afraid of how it makes him feel, suddenly and not at all suddenly. How the strawberry jam caught at the corner of Sirius’ mouth as they devour Mrs. Lupin’s thumbprint cookies causes his stomach to clench. How he learns the feeling of Sirius’ body against him in the night and how he misses it when Sirius gets up in the morning. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/Bx4aK-YsPeU (bernard herrmann's brilliant score)


	5. Chapter 5

Remus spends the day of the full moon in bed, dozing on top of his sheets. He feels highstrung and tetchy from the moment he wakes up, snapping at his father over lunch and trying his very hardest to ignore Sirius’ attempts to distract him with impressions of their professors. Sirius eventually leaves him alone to go outside and read a Quidditch magazine in the garden, and Remus continues to sulk in his room. He considers relieving his tension the old-fashioned way in the shower, but his skin is too sensitive to the touch — as it is he can barely stand to wear the T-shirt and boxer shorts he’s been sweating through since he woke up this morning. He groans at the sensation of his own blood in his veins and imagines crawling out of his body, seeing the sad soggy thing that would be left behind. How he’d burn it, set it out to sea, watch from the shore and never miss it. He slips in and out of fitful sleep, dreamless, until he is gently woken sometime in the late afternoon by the now-familiar sensation of someone kneeling into his mattress.

“Hey, man,” says Sirius when he opens his eyes.

“Sirius, I don’t feel well at the moment.”

“I know. I brought you some ginger ale. Your mum said it’ll make you feel better? I think a potion or something would probably be more effective, but she says that it’s all you need.” He shrugs and hands the glass to Remus, who places it on his bedside table without so much as a second glance. Remus shuts his eyes again and wills Sirius to go away, but the weight on his bed remains.

“Are you alright, Moony?” says Sirius after a prolonged silence in which Remus pretends to be asleep. 

“No, Pads, I’m really not.” He sighs. “It’s worse at home. I think the wolf knows that this is where it happened. I think it makes him stronger.”

Sirius shifts closer to him. “You don’t think I could go with you tonight?”

Remus laughs. “No chance. There’s nowhere for us to go. Besides, you’re an illegal Animagus, remember? Emphasis on the illegal part.”

“We could Obliviate your parents,” Sirius suggests, voice like a shrug. 

Remus’ eyes fly open. “Are you mad? Obliviate my fucking _parents_? So you can join me in the woods behind the house and have a go at some wildlife? Maybe maim an innocent villager? No, I’m going to go in the shed like I’ve always done, and they’ll cast some spells so I don’t break into the house and kill my own family, and it'll be just fucking fine.” When Sirius doesn’t say anything, he continues, as his rage returns like an old friend. “You think I haven’t thought about that, Sirius? How I’ve ruined their lives? How I could just make them forget me and all those months spent in hospital and the fucking _years_ of pain and fear and stress I’ve brought to them? It would be a bloody kindness, but I can’t do it because I’m too selfish. I would miss them too much.”

Sirius looks at him, wide-eyed and fearful, like a dog that has been shouted at, whacked with a newspaper, for pissing in the house. “Remus, I —”

“Forget it, Sirius. If you weren’t going to be able to deal with this, you shouldn’t have come here. It’s not _fun_ like it is at Hogwarts. I’m sure the Potters are having a lovely holiday without a sick werewolf to spoil the fun for them.” He rolls onto his side to stare at the wall instead of Sirius, even as his bones cry out at the sudden angry movement. Tears prick at his eyes as he forces himself to breathe.

“I don’t think it’s fun.”

“What?” he says in a mean voice, still refusing to look at Sirius.

“I said, I don’t think it’s fun. The full moon, I mean.” He lets out a breath, and Remus recognizes the tremor in his voice from the night on which Sirius first showed up, a childlike cadence. “I mean, it _is_ a bit brilliant to run around as Padfoot, but it’s not fun for us. For me, anyway. I worry about you the whole time, even while I’m a dog. It’s like the one human emotion I still have while I’m Padfoot. And I hate seeing you afterwards.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I look like some horrible creature has attacked me. Which it has.”

“No, because…it hurts me. To see you like that. Hurt, I mean.”

Remus doesn’t say anything. A tear runs down the slope of his nose. He feels Sirius move closer, eventually putting a hand, rather awkwardly, on Remus’ hip. “I’m sorry,” Sirius says softly. His hand twitches with uncertainty.

“Do you even know what it’s like?” Remus says into his pillow, startled by the angry, tear-filled timbre of his own words. “To have your parents chain you in a shed when you’re eight years old? And your mum is sobbing and your dad keeps saying we have to, we have to, it’s for the boy’s own good, and you just want to know why it had to be _you_? Or how about listening to your parents arguing every night, shouting at each other and knowing it’s your fault? Do you know how that feels?” Remus is full-on crying at this point, and he hates himself for it, hates Sirius for staying. 

“No, I don’t know. Or maybe I do, a little bit,” he adds, quieter, and Remus feels all his blood go cold with realization. He sits up to face Sirius, scrubs at his cheeks with the heel of his palm. 

“I came here because it was my first thought.” Sirius is looking down at his hands, curled strangely in his lap. “I knew you wouldn’t judge me or ask questions. I knew you would just be a friend because that’s who you are. James is my best mate, my brother even, but he would want to know everything because that’s who he is. He would want to make a plan to get revenge. He feels sorry for me.” He glances up. “You’re not like that, Remus. You don’t pity anyone. You’re just good, that’s it.”

Remus looks at him. “I’m not good,” he says quietly, feeling like a little boy. “I’m a monster.”

“You’re not a fucking monster, okay? My parents, they’re the monsters. You are nothing like that.” Sirius’ eyes are dark. “Don’t ever _ever_ say that about yourself, ‘cause you’re good, and you notice things, and you know how to love things properly instead of too much or too messy, and you always know what to say.” He doesn't look at Remus, but focuses his gaze just off to the side at the wall behind him, as if he were some criminal making a confession in a movie, an interrogation lamp held close to his face. He blinks rapidly. “And the only reason I asked about the Animagus thing was because I don’t know how else to help, and I want to make it better so badly. I hate that they have to put you in the shed, I hate that you’re always hurting, I hate that fucking bastard and what he did to you. I hate that I can’t help at all. You’ve helped me so much, Moony, letting me stay here and pretend that I have a nice, normal family, and I can’t do anything. I can't even fucking sleep in my own bed,” he says, and looks down again.

Remus stares at his profile for what seems like ages. Absurdly, he is struck by how beautiful Sirius is, even in this pitiful state: the line of his jaw, his delicate brow, his eyes cast downward in shame. Remus wants to tell him that even in the moments where it hurts to look at him, it's still better than not having him here at all. He wants to tell him that he flinches from Sirius’ attempts at affection not because he dislikes them, but because he likes them, maybe more than is fair to like someone's desperation. He wants to tell him that he likes watching movies but he likes watching Sirius watch movies even better, that the delight in Sirius’ eyes beats any shot ever orchestrated by Scorsese.

But Remus doesn't tell him any of that, as the rage fades into the familiar low hum of his pre-moon body, momentarily sated. “I don’t mind, Sirius,” he says, and it sounds like _I don’t mind Sirius,_ which is something he has said many times before, as an explanation, as an excuse, as an understatement. He leans forward, and in a moment of spontaneous lunacy, fits his hand into Sirius’. This is no more intimate than sleeping in the same bed, surely not, but in the brightness of the afternoon sunlight it feels to Remus like they are both standing on a cliffside, and he has just decided to dangle one foot off the edge. Sirius glances up at him, then down at their intertwined fingers, then back at Remus. They look at each other for a long time, quiet but for the sound of breathing.Then Sirius tilts his head and presses a soft kiss to the corner of Remus’ mouth. It burns like a lit match against his skin and Remus musters every last bit of his remaining resolves to prevent himself from yelling in surprise. Sirius pulls back, eyelids fluttering, and they continue to stare at each other a moment longer until Sirius stands up, suddenly, from the bed. 

“You should rest,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” replies Remus, stupidly, and watches as Sirius closes the bedroom door behind him. He touches his own face with a reverence that he rarely reserves for any part of his body. 

That night, the wolf howls so loudly for such a long time that Remus is temporarily deafened when he wakes the next morning. The creature rages and rakes at the walls of the shed, tearing at the weathered material until ringlets of wood peel away and gather in piles on the floor. There are some nights at Hogwarts when he can recall vague details about the transformation, the patterns they ran through the Forbidden Forest, but today all Remus can remember is the bottomless need of the wolf, a consumptive and insatiable appetite beyond hunger and lust. Remus can only hear _want want want wantwantwantwantWANTWANTWANT_ , a chant between his ears like a heartbeat as he opens his eyes. He is curled on his side, naked, on the floor of the shed, and he thinks that maybe this is the worst part of all, the few minutes between the moonset and his parents’ anxious arrival at the door where he only has the energy to lie there in the remnants of his own destruction.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for sexual content!!

Remus does not see Sirius for three days after the moon. At first, it’s a change of pace that Remus doesn’t even notice — between the constant, nervous attention from his parents and the pain eating up his body, Sirius’ absence barely registers until he goes to sleep that night and suddenly recognizes the empty space in his bed. Too tired to panic, Remus calls for his mother, who appears instantaneously in the doorway, backlit by the dim overhead bulb in the hallway, holding one of her ubiquitous cigarettes. He asks her where Sirius is.

“He’s gone to James’, _bach_ ,” she says. The cigarette shivers in her trembling hand. “Just for a little bit. He said he would be back now after. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worrying, Mum,” Remus says. He hates this, always defending himself.

“I think you’re very good to look after your friend, Remus,” Mrs. Lupin continues. Her face looks tired, and Remus wonders if the wrinkles in her forehead have always been this prominent. She takes a drag of the cigarette, turns her head to blow the smoke out into the hallway. When she realizes that Remus doesn’t want to continue this conversation, she says, “Well, goodnight, dear. I hope you can sleep.”

“Night,” Remus says to the thin cloud of smoke she leaves behind. He lies in bed for a long time, trying not to think about Sirius and inevitably circling back to such thoughts regardless. He thinks of the kiss, which was halfway between affection and — something else. How warm Sirius was, how sweaty his palm felt against Remus’ fingers. His body yearns, embarrassingly, and Remus decides that he has to write it off as a momentary lapse in Sirius’ sanity, a break that came unbidden. Nerves. Anxiety. A need for comfort. The moon. He feels himself get hard and he sighs, touches himself beneath his bedsheets, even though it hurts, because it all hurts anyway, and it doesn’t matter, because Sirius won’t be coming back. They will see each other in the fall and return to their charade in which they do not talk about these two weeks together, sweating in the same bed. Remus will see Lily again, and she will throw her head back and laugh the way she does, and Remus will envy her the way he always envies James, Sirius, for the unapologetic way they all take up space. He will watch Sirius in his old, familiar way, and Sirius will glance back at him occasionally, and that will be enough.

***

 

Remus walks downstairs on the fourth morning of Sirius’ absence to see a familiar mop of black hair peeking over the high back of his father’s armchair, and, again, he has to stop himself from shouting and letting the glass of water in his hand clatter to the floor. He walks slowly over to the chair, as if creeping up on a wild animal, and peeks over the top.

Sirius tilts his head to look up at Remus. “Hey,” he says, smiling. Remus can see every one of his teeth, sharp, cruel things past his soft mouth. 

“You’re back,” Remus says.

“Of course! Didja think I would leave my Moony all alone with no one to keep him company?”

“Mum said you went to James’.” Remus circles the chair to stand in front of Sirius, who sits with his legs crossed, a book in his lap. 

“Yeah, I — I figured I ought to leave you alone for a bit. But I’m here now!”

“Why?” Remus knows he is pushing up against something potentially dangerous, but he feels strangely, perhaps foolishly, brave. _He’s here now_ , like some kind of pathetic mantra, over and over again.

“Why did I leave? Or why did I come back?”

“Why are you here instead of with James?”

Sirius smacks the book in his hand against the chair’s armrest. “Because I want to be here! Merlin, Remus, how many times do I have to explain? You make me feel like you _want_ me to go to the Potters’ instead.” He stands up, brushes past Remus to stalk out of the house through the backdoor. 

Remus follows him. “Padfoot, wait,” he calls into the garden from the back stoop, and Sirius stops but does not turn around. Remus can see the muscles in his back tense under his thin white T-shirt. It’s always a stoop, he thinks. A stoop and a garden and two boys that can’t look at each other, or look at each other too much. In French films the characters are always staring and smoking, never speaking, but it always means something. He isn’t sure what it’s supposed to mean here, what symbolism would exist if Godard or Truffaut were directing this moment.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Remus continues. “I’m sorry. I’m glad you're here, really. It’s just — I’m used to being alone in the summer, and then you showed up, and I was glad! I was glad and then you — you left me.”

Sirius turns around to look back at Remus, squinting in the sunlight. “I left for three days, Moony.” 

The bravery he was feeling moments ago is utterly gone, replaced by a cold confusion. “I’m sorry,” Remus says. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“Why?”

“Why did you kiss me?” The words fall out his mouth like half-chewed bubblegum. Sirius stares at him, and Remus wills himself not to glance away even though all he wants is for this conversation to be over, for things to not be so childishly convoluted anymore. After a moment, Sirius steps forward through the grass, onto the bottom step, gazing up into Remus’ face. His pupils are tiny pinpricks of black as they dart from Remus’ eyes to his mouth.

“Why did you kiss me?” Remus says again, barely above a whisper.

“It wasn’t a real kiss,” Sirius says, eyes still searching, unable to focus on any one part of Remus’ face. “I didn’t really kiss you.”

“You did.” Remus raises a hand, touches his index finger to the corner of his mouth where Sirius had placed his lips. 

Sirius’ gaze drops, dark eyelashes casting gentle shadows across his cheeks. He mutters something.

“Pardon?” Remus says.

“I said, I’m sorry.”

Unthinking, Remus places a hand on the bare skin above the collar of Sirius’ T-shirt, the join between neck and shoulder, a comforting gesture. “You don’t — ” His voice sounds strangled. He closes his eyes, tries to breathe, doesn’t move his hand. “You don’t have to be sorry.” 

There is a moment, very brief and bright in Remus’ memory years later, where he opens his eyes and sees Sirius’ face moving towards him, shifting out of focus like something held too close to a camera lens. There is a moment where Remus thinks of absolutely nothing, and then Sirius’ lips are against his and his brain floods with images: Sirius and James flinging custard at each other in second year. Morning sunlight filtered through the warm red of the curtains surrounding his bed at school. A ladybug crawling in Lily’s hair. Anita Ekberg standing with her eyes closed in the Fontana di Trevi in _La Dolce Vita_. Sirius dancing drunkenly to Peter’s Chuck Berry records. His mother’s cartons of cigarettes, tucked behind the boxes of tea. Ali MacGraw biting the snow off of Ryan O’Neal’s face in _Love Story_. Fallen leaves scattered across the roads in Hogsmeade in autumn. 

All of these images flicker through his mind with impossible speed, like so much film run through a shutter, and it occurs to Remus that he should kiss back. So he does, or tries to, moving his mouth timidly, awkwardly against Sirius’ until Sirius parts his lips and then it’s his tongue and Remus’ mind goes blank again, empty as a moonless sky. His hand moves up Sirius’ neck to the base of his skull, unconsciously trying to tip Sirius’ head even further upwards, closer, and it feels like he is falling, and then he is falling, off the stoop. They break apart as Remus attempts to steady himself, but it’s too late, and he stumbles towards the ground, palms and bare knees suddenly against the still-damp grass. 

Sirius kneels beside him as Remus tries to compose himself, grey eyes watching him with Sirius’ signature intensity. “Remus — ” he begins, and Remus grabs at him the way a drowning person might grab at a lifesaver, fingers scrambling for purchase, pulling Sirius forward until they’re half-lying on each other. Sirius makes a noise into Remus’ mouth and Remus thinks he is dying, is convinced of it.

“Remus, we’re in the fucking garden,” Sirius says, pushing Remus back into the grass. “We can’t do this in the garden.” He stares down at Remus, positioned just so perfectly that his head blocks the bright sunlight. 

“Right. Sorry.” He scoots out from under Sirius, stands up, starts moving towards the house. “Sorry.”

Sirius stands, too. “Stop bloody apologizing!” He lets out a breath. “Fuck, Remus.”

Remus’ hand is on the doorknob before he notices his own shaking. He pauses, and then Sirius is behind him, breathing softly into his neck.

“Let’s just go inside, yeah?” murmurs Sirius.

They creep quietly through the house, up the stairs, even though Mr. Lupin is at work and Mrs. Lupin is out running errands. The house seems to tremble, too, as if in anticipation, and Remus knows that that’s a stupid thing to think, but he’s finding it rather difficult to collect his thoughts, especially as they steal into his bedroom and Sirius is pulling him onto his bed and it’s his tongue again and oh.

They kiss for what feels like maybe a century, or maybe only a minute — Remus can’t decide — and then Sirius moves from his mouth and kisses under his jaw, down his neck, and a very embarrassing, high-pitched noise escapes from Remus’ throat.

Sirius stops. “Remus?” His mouth is impossibly red.

Remus nods. “I’m — this is — I’ve not — ” 

“S’alright. Me neither. Well, except for that time last year, with Dorcas Meadowes.”

“But Dorcas is a lesbian,” Remus says without thinking. “Lily mentioned it once, ‘cause they —” he stops, realizing that this is a rather inappropriate conversation to be having at the moment. _Shut up, Remus!_ he thinks _._

Sirius laughs. “No fucking way! That means I’m, like, one degree away from snogging Lily. James’ll be pissed.”

Remus groans. “Can we please not talk about James right now?”

“Right, sorry.” 

Remus leans down and kisses Sirius under his ear, at the hinge of his jaw. He sucks on the thin skin experimentally, eliciting a yelp from Sirius. “Sorry,” he mumbles against Sirius’ neck, licking at the faint mark. Sirius hums and shifts slightly, and Remus bites back a gasp when he feels Sirius’ erection against his leg. _I did that_ , he thinks, stupidly, wondrously. _He’s hard because of me_. He’s reminded vaguely of learning how to cast his first spells, staring in awe at the quill levitating before him. “Sirius…” he says.

“Yeah?”

“Can I take off your shirt?”

“Sure.” Sirius lies back, arms outspread like the Vitruvian Man. Remus cautiously tugs at the shirt’s hem, sliding it up Sirius’ belly. He is careful not to touch Sirius’ skin, only the fabric, but then Sirius sits up and pulls off the shirt himself. “Hi,” he says, smiling, when his head pops out, hair mussed. 

“Hi,” whispers Remus. He tries very hard not to look down at Sirius’ bare chest.

“Now you?” Sirius says questioningly, and Remus nods, against his better judgment, and Sirius leans forward to undo the buttons, painfully slow. “So many fucking layers,” he mutters as he slides the shirt off Remus’ shoulders and starts pulling at the undershirt. 

When they are both half-naked, they stop for a moment and look at each other. Remus wants desperately to go back to kissing so Sirius stops staring at his body, eyes roaming obviously over the scars that snake across his skin.

“You’re proper gorgeous, Moony,” Sirius says after a while, and Remus kisses him on the mouth so he won’t keep talking. 

Now skin-to-skin, Remus realizes that this may or may not be over rather quickly. And then what? He fights the urge to rut aimlessly against Sirius’ leg, but his hips seem to move of their own accord. He groans. “Can you…?” he starts, moving his knee between Sirius’ legs so they’re slotted together, and then the friction is good rather than painful. He curses, feeling Sirius’ cock jump in his trousers. 

Sirius kisses his neck in response. “You’re very sexy when you swear, you know.”

Remus stops moving his hips to roll his eyes. “Oh, come off it. I swear all the time. Are you saying it turns you on when I shout at you and the rest for being idiots?” Sirius looks up at him and grins slyly, and Remus’ stomach flips at the sight and the realization. “Sirius…”

“Remember when Peter dropped his trunk on your foot and you swore for about ten minutes straight? That was very, _very_ hot.”

“He broke my toe! I had to go to the hospital wing!”

“Which was a good thing, ‘cause then I could wank in peace without having to worry about you catching me.”

“You’re a pig.” In the back of his mind, he tries to remember when that had happened. Fourth year? That would mean —

Sirius tugs at the hair at the nape of Remus’ neck and Remus involuntarily lets out a gasp, which Sirius takes as an opportunity to kiss him, open-mouthed.

“Please, please, let’s not talk,” Remus says when Sirius pulls away and starts moving down his neck. “Please, Sirius, let’s — ”

“Okay,” Sirius replies, shifting under Remus, causing him to swear again. “Let’s. But can we switch? I’m getting all cramped up down here.” He gently moves them so Remus is lying against the pillows, staring up into Sirius’ face. His untrimmed hair falls down around their faces like a cloak, and Remus resists his inclination to brush it out of the way. Sirius kisses along his collarbone, hands roaming down his chest. He runs the flat of his palm over one of his nipples and Remus actually yells, much to his own embarrassment. He squirms as Sirius bends down and licks at the sensitive spot, and Jesus fuck he’s really going to come just from this, Sirius’ tongue on his chest.

“Sirius,” he says in a low voice. 

“Um.” Sirius sits back slightly. “Can you, er. Can you pull on my hair a little bit?”

Remus reaches up, glad for the brief respite from Sirius’ ministrations, and grabs a fistful of long black hair. He pulls slightly, really barely does anything, and Sirius’ hips stutter. Remus does it again, and Sirius falls forward, groaning, burying his face in the crook of Remus’ neck. Remus wonders if that was it, and can’t help but feel slightly disappointed while simultaneously begging himself to pause this inner monologue for just one minute. Then Sirius is kissing him sloppily, rocking back and forth, and Remus realizes, no, _this_ is it, and he gently pulls Sirius away by his hair. 

“Remus,” Sirius says. It comes out in a desperate whine. And then it really is it, because Sirius saying his name like that is by far the most horribly wonderful thing he has ever heard. He clenches his fingers in Sirius’ hair as his belly tightens and Remus comes. Sirius does a moment later, mumbling unintelligibly into Remus’ chest, rolling his hips until Remus whispers that it’s too much, he’s too sensitive, and Sirius stills. 

Part of him feels like he’s seen God, and part of him feels the shame already taking hold of his spent body as Sirius crawls off of him, exhausted, a sheen of sweat visible on his shoulders, across his chest. 

“Padfoot,” he says.

“Mm. You said no talking,” Sirius replies sleepily, already curled up against him.

“My mum is going to be home soon.”

“S’nice.”

“Sirius, it smells like spunk in here.”

“S’nice, too.”

Remus exhales loudly, because he’s not sure if he would call the acrid scent ‘nice’. “We can’t exactly ask my dad to cast any cleaning spells, so we’re going to have to shower.”

Sirius opens one eye. “Together?” 

“Have you seen the bath? It barely fits me, never mind the two of us.”

“‘Cause you’re so tall and sexy,” Sirius mumbles, smiling even as he drifts off. “Sexy, sexy Moony.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say that,” Remus says quietly. 

“Why?” Sirius is awake now, grey eyes concerned

“I just — I don’t know. I don’t know what this is. I don’t really know what just happened.”

“You made me come, that’s what happened,” Sirius says, and Remus feels a shiver run through his entire body when he realizes the truth of that statement, what that means about them, about himself. 

“I didn’t even know you were queer,” Remus says.

Sirius shrugs. “Well, I didn’t know Dorcas was a lesbian. So we’re even, sort of.”

“I don’t want to be your experiment, Sirius. Because I — I am.” He closes his eyes. “A queer, I mean. A homosexual. Gay, whatever.” His chest feels tight. He thinks that in this moment, there is nothing more that he wants than to be rid of these soiled trousers and pants. 

“Okay,” Sirius says. 

“Okay?”

“What do you want me to say? ‘Me, too’? ‘Congratulations’?” 

“I don’t know, alright? I don’t know what I want you to say. I just… I want this to not be so fucking difficult.”

“It doesn’t have to be difficult.” Sirius puts a hand on Remus’ knee. “Not everything has to be complicated and tragic like it is in your books, you know. Sometimes it can just be. There’s good and bad and in-betweens. I mean, there’s really, really good, and there’s really, really bad, but most stuff is just okay. Sometimes you have to figure it out as you go along, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Remus says, feeling defeated, tired. 

From downstairs, a familiar, sunny voice cries out: “Boys? Are you home? There was a fabulous sale on prawns at the grocery!”

“Fucking shit,” Remus swears under his breath. “Yeah, Mum, we’re up here!” he shouts at the door. “Bollocks,” he adds quietly.

Sirius runs his hand up Remus’ thigh, grinning. “ _So_ hot,” he mouths, and Remus slaps his hand away, standing up. Remus flips him off as he walks out the door to the bathroom, not before he catches Sirius pretending to swoon back on his bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IF you are interested these are the movie scenes that are referenced in this chapter
> 
> https://youtu.be/5aXDk1pUzZU (la dolce vita)
> 
> https://youtu.be/PFRHMjAJeYs (love story)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for mild internalized homophobia

Remus goes into town while Sirius stays behind to help Mrs. Lupin with…whatever other chores she plans on doing. Remus barely pays attention to the polite conversation they have with his mother in the kitchen after the two of them shower (separately). He wheels his bicycle out of the garage and looks back at the house, at the window of his bedroom. It looks like a window, and Remus doesn’t know why he feels surprised, as if there ought to be some kind of visible clue to represent what has happened in that room. A neon sign, perhaps. He swings one narrow leg over the banana seat of the bike and pedals down the street, away from the house and his mother and Sirius. 

Paul is sat with her feet up on the counter, reading a book and wearing her famous dungarees inside the box office when Remus clatters into the cinema’s lobby. Jo must be working in the projection box during today’s screenings. Paul glances over the top of the book and, seeing that it’s Remus, tilts forward in her chair.

“Hey,” she says. “I thought Jo told me you weren’t scheduled today?”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll pay for my ticket, don’t worry,” Remus replies wryly. “Can I leave my bike here in the lobby?”

Paul shrugs and folds down the corner of the page she’s on. Remus glances at the title. _Cables to Rage_. “Sure. Where’s your mate? The handsome one who’s absolutely not queer,” she adds as she walks out from behind the booth. 

Remus feels his cheeks go warm. “Er. Actually, I think I might have to amend my previous statement regarding…that situation.”

A look of realization passes over Paul’s face and her eyes go wide, mouth dropping open in a wide grin. “Jo owes me five quid.”

“I can’t stand you two,” Remus says, trying not to smile. 

Paul leans over and takes Remus’ hand in hers. Her dark eyes, always earnest, look particularly sincere to him as she says, softly, “Are you happy?”

Remus considers. “I think so?” He sighs. “I’m not quite sure what’s going on. He just…showed up. Again. And he kissed me, and I kissed him back, and we…fooled around. And I liked it.” His voice shrinks into a barely-audible whisper. “Before, it was all theoretical, like — like maybe if I met the right girl, these feelings would go away, yeah? But now I know for sure. And that frightens me.” 

Paul’s face is soft with emotion; if Remus didn’t know better, he would think that he could see tears in her eyes. “It’s alright if you’re frightened. I was, too, when I kissed a woman for the first time. I still get scared a lot of the time, but now I have Jo to shake it out of me.” She smiles and inhales deeply. “Remus, there are so many people who will disagree with this, or not believe me — people who have fought me for saying it — but being a homosexual is one of the best things that ever happened to me. Not to say that it’s all a laugh, but sometimes you can learn to love the things you used to hate about yourself, or the things that people will want you to hate.” She turns around, picks up the Audre Lorde book. “Things are changing, Remus — maybe not fast enough, but they are. D’you think I would have believed you if you told me when I was seventeen that someday I would be out in the open, reading poetry written by another black lesbian? _Good_ poetry, too. None of that shite I was writing in my diary.” She squeezes Remus’ hand. “While you’re here, you may as well help me clean up the soda that some old codger spilled over there.”

Remus scrubs at the floor as Pauline fires up the popcorn machine. In the warm glow of the violently-popping apparatus, she looks beatific. Remus thinks of when he first met Jo and Paul, having wandered into the cinema one rainy afternoon when he was thirteen, drawn to the flickering neon sign outside like a moth to a flame. How he had never seen a pair of women so boyish and beautiful, Paul with her shaved head and Jo with her button-down shirt and glasses like James’, griping at each other behind the concession stand about the predictability of _The Exorcist_. 

“I’m just saying that it’s rather typical for a teenage girl to be masturbating. I don’t think they need to hire a priest to wring it out of her. And with a cross of all things — Friedkin certainly wasn’t going for subtlety, but _sure_ , he’s a _genius_. Please.” 

Remus started going to the movies at least once a week after that day. He wasn’t in love with the two women in the cinema, as his father had once teased, but he was fascinated with them, their ease of movement, how they didn’t seem to like any of the movies they showed because there was always room for something better. Eventually he introduced himself to Paul one day, and they took him under their wing. They must have seen something in him, he reflects, some kind of desperation, a loneliness. Jo taught Remus how to work the projector, and by the end of the month, he couldn’t even be scared by Linda Blair’s demonic possession because he’d seen the film so many times. Jo didn’t start paying him until the summer after that, but Remus didn’t mind. He’d do it for free just for the peace and quiet of the projection box, the comfort of Jo and Paul’s companionship.

He remembers the first time he saw them kiss, after a late-night screening of _American Graffiti_ (which, shockingly, Jo liked, if only for its soundtrack). Remus had finished his diligent sweeping of the discarded popcorn in the auditorium and walked back into the lobby to see Paul come up behind Jo, who was leaning over the counter. She wrapped her arms around the other woman’s chest, and Jo tried to shrug her off. Paul murmured something quietly, and it must have been convincing, or charming, because Jo turned her head and pressed her lips to Paul’s. As he stood in the doorway of the auditorium, push-broom in hand, Remus processed this image like every other piece of information that had ever passed through his eyes to his brain, and yet he felt struck by the radical simplicity of the act. A kiss is just a kiss, except when it can’t be. He knew that the two women lived together in the same house, an old, fairy-tale-looking structure covered in climbing ivy, and they flirted with one another in the playful, annoying-annoyed way couples flirt after having known each other for years. But to see them kiss was new, putting into words the thoughts that had been rattling around in Remus’ head for the past year or so. He wanted what they had in a way that he had never understood his parents’ romance, or even the love stories in most films. Seeing them, Remus knew, and he thought he could somehow feel his heart sink and soar at once.

He came out to them the following summer, as he was fitting the first reel of the newly-delivered _Blazing Saddles_ print into the projector. Jo stood, observing his careful movements, eating an apple, when Remus had said it aloud: that horrible word. Jo stopped mid-bite and looked at him for a long time. Then she had swallowed and stepped forward and put her hand to Remus’ cheek and said, “Remus, there is nothing in this world that can stop you from living your best life.” She drew him into a hug. “Pauline and I are always here for you, love.”

There had been little discussion after that, but Jo and Paul would occasionally leave certain books in the knapsack Remus kept in the projection box, and they stopped censoring themselves as much when they talked about their friends. He felt a mixture of gratitude and fear all summer, turning the words over and over in his mind. Andrea started coming round, and she and Remus took walks together between screenings on slower days, where Andrea talked and talked and Remus didn’t say anything and he was glad. He thought about Sirius, and James, and the Prewitt brothers, and Cleavon Little astride his horse, and eventually he stopped feeling sick all the time, except during the moon, when the wolf seemed more vicious than ever.

Remus goes down into the basement to dump out the mop bucket, and when he clambers back up the stairs, Jo is waiting for him.

“Paul tells me you’ve got news, love,” she says. 

Remus glowers at Paul, who widens her eyes apologetically at him from behind the counter as she counts a customer’s change. He follows Jo into the auditorium under the guise of helping her sweep, and he tells her, quietly. It feels strange to think that That happened only hours ago, in the mid-morning. Jo does not press for details, but instead regards him thoughtfully, with a gentleness that she rarely shows towards anything besides the projection equipment. Finally, she says, “Are you happy?”

Remus laughs. “Paul said the same thing.”

“It’s a valid question. I wasn’t,” she says with a shrug.

“How do you mean?”

“I was twenty-two. In America for the first time. Drunk for the first time. I went to confession the next day with the worst bloody hangover I think I’ve ever had. That was the last time I went to church.” She looks wistful. “Some things you need to get used to. I didn't know who I was, or what I wanted. The only thing I knew was that I had to break up with that awful boy I had waiting for me back in England.”

“You’ve dated men?” Remus is incredulous despite himself.

“Oh, sure. A lot of us have. Like I said, some things take time.” She smiles. “But I figured it out eventually, and now you have the devilishly handsome woman you see standing here before you.” She leans in towards Remus, as if to share an earth-shattering secret. “It’s okay to want. It’s okay to mess about. Just be careful, pet — with your heart and his.”

Remus stays for the next screening of _Taxi Driver_ , though he barely pays attention (as if he needs to — at this point, he probably knows the script better than De Niro does). He thinks about how Sirius had kissed him, whether he had felt afraid, too. Whether Sirius had been aching this whole time, confused and alone, and Remus cringes at the thought. He looks up at the scene before him, awash with blood. God’s eye view. A dream sequence that isn’t a dream.

Remus hugs both Jo and Paul goodbye when he finally gathers the courage to return home to Sirius. They watch fondly as he wheels his bicycle out of the lobby.

The setting sun is warm on the back of his neck as he pedals back to his house. He can smell the seafood before he even parks the bicycle in the garage. Sirius is setting the table, carefully smoothing out the napkins and lining the silverware up just right. Remus watches him from the doorway, until Mrs. Lupin walks in and sees her son.

“Nice of you to join us for dinner, Remus,” she says drily. “Thank goodness I have Sirius here to do your chores.”

“Sorry,” Remus mumbles, not looking at Sirius. 

The four of them eat dinner in relative quiet. Mr. and Mrs. Lupin chat amicably with each other, and Remus pretends not to notice the reproachful glances his mother keeps passing towards him. They have ice cream from a tub for dessert and it all feels very normal, except that, of course, it isn’t.

Remus goes upstairs to his room after helping clear the table and puts on a Billie Holiday record. His father calls it mopey music, but Remus loves it, the fragility and authenticity of her voice. He lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling, letting the record play itself out, until a face appears above him.

“Hi, Moony,” Sirius says. He sits next to Remus on the bed, and Remus wonders how many times he’s going to find himself in this exact same position.

“Hi, Pads,” Remus replies, trying to keep his voice even.

“Did you have a good day at the cinema?”

“How did you know I was there?” Remus asks, and Sirius laughs in response.

“Where else would you have gone?”

“Touché,” he mutters. 

“Listen, Remus, I — ”

“Come lie down, Sirius.”

“What?” Sirius furrows his brow.

“Come lie with me,” Remus explains, rolling onto his side as if presenting the bed to him. Sirius cautiously does as he is told and settles into the space Remus leaves. Remus puts his arm around Sirius’ side, lightly running his hand over his T-shirt in a manner that he hopes seems more casual than it feels. Remus is reminded, as he often is, of the first nights that they spent together in this room, how Sirius’ body had softened into his, exhausted. Eventually, he says, “I didn’t mean to be short with you, earlier. After. We.” Across the room, the record crackles as Side A comes to an end.

“S’okay,” mumbles Sirius.

“I just — it was a lot for me. It was very good, er, but.”

“You think too much,” Sirius says, flipping onto his back so he can look at Remus. In this position, their faces are very close together. Remus doesn’t move his hand from its resting position on Sirius’ chest. 

“One of us has to,” replies Remus. “And besides, you talk far too much, so we balance out.”

“Don’t start on _my_ talking when you’re the one gossiping about the various sexualities of the Gryffindor girls in the middle of a snog. You’d be a terrible spy, you know. The enemy would just have to get you in bed and you’d be revealing all your secrets in no time.” 

“Shh,” Remus says, but he’s smiling. “I don’t want this to make us any different.”

“If anything, I’d say it makes us more similar.”

“Jesus, you’re incorrigible,” Remus groans. “Sirius, I — I guess I’m just scared, because you’re one of my absolute best mates, and I don’t know who I am yet, or what I’m supposed to be, or what I really want. But I do know that what we…what we did this morning was kind of brilliant.”

“I’m scared, too, Moony,” Sirius says. “But it’s alright, ‘cause we’ve got each other. And yeah, it was all sorts of brilliant.”

Remus swallows. He thinks about Sirius in the garden that first night, how his vulnerability showed through his skin, bluer than the blood in his veins. _Sirius came here_ , he thinks. _He came here because of me._ Even after this morning, it still seems preposterous to him, that someone like Sirius would go to someone like Remus in a time of need. But then, when he really thinks about it, this isn’t the first time — Sirius, in his own, strange version of emotional intimacy, has always been inclined to Remus, at least when it comes to certain things. It’s never been anything life-changing, but Sirius occasionally tries to engage Remus in conversation about topics that are perhaps more philosophical than the things he discusses with James: fear, and anger, and literature, mostly. Sirius and Remus are both angry people, for different reasons and with different outlets, and Sirius knows that, has always known that. It is the thing that has always separated them from James and Peter. Remus feels guilty for having been so fixated on figuring out Sirius’ secrets when he first arrived at the Lupins’, because, in truth, he doesn’t really need to know anything. The details don’t matter, not in this situation. If Sirius wanted to talk about it, he could, but Remus resolves to never try to force it out of him.

“You’re thinking again,” Sirius says softly. He reaches out to Remus, who can’t help but startle, though he quickly relaxes into the touch. Sirius rubs his thumb against the copper stubble on Remus’ chin. 

“Do you really think I’m…?” Remus says, and he wonders if Sirius can feel his face go warm under his hand.

“Do I think you’re what? Smart? Tall? Funny?” Sirius grins and puts his hand through Remus’ hair, tousles it so it goes into Remus’ eyes. “You just want me to say you’re sexy again.”

“No, I — ”

“For the record, Monsieur Moony, I _do_ think you’re sexy as in, sex with you would be — is lovely, but I also think you’re beautiful, as in your eyes are like the sea or some bullshit like that. Isn’t that something they’d say in one of your books?”

“I doubt Shakespeare ever used the word ‘bullshit’ in any of his sonnets,” Remus replies, trying to hide the nervous smile that plays at his mouth. He settles on biting his lower lip instead, glancing downwards.

“I mean it, Remus,” Sirius says. “I’ve always meant it.” He moves forward on the bed and presses a kiss onto Remus’ temple, right where the scar ends. “You are good,” he whispers, and Remus feels like crying because he doesn’t know what else to do with all the frightened love in his chest. 

“If I’m good, then you’re better,” Remus says.

“Oi, shut up! It’s not a competition, you weirdo.” He scoffs good-naturedly. “And you think _I’m_ the one who talks too much.” Sirius kisses Remus on the mouth then, maybe to shut him up, maybe because he wanted to, and Remus still can’t fathom it, wanting and being wanted in equal measure. _How dreadful this world is_ , he thinks, kissing Sirius back, stroking at his long, dark hair. _How strange and dreadful and yet so worth it sometimes_. 


	8. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm afraid to call this anything but an epilogue, as i'm not sure it fits with the rest of the story (it's been a while, oops). in any case i apologize for the extreme lapse in updates! i've also gone back and edited the rest of the chapters i'd previously published if that interests anyone, lmao.
> 
> contains more sex (sorry) and several thinly-veiled references to the author's own passion for led zeppelin iii (double sorry).

Remus had never really enjoyed summer. It always struck him as a nothing time, an in-between, stale and stagnant as a waiting room. He knew there were lots of people that longed for the summer all year round, people who loved the longer days and the warmer temperatures, the lack of responsibilities. While he liked that he was able to sleep later during holidays, Remus had never held any particular affection towards the season. 

This changes, of course, with Sirius, the way things always have changed with Sirius, who ends up staying with the Lupins until the start of the new term at Hogwarts. The weather remains, for the most part, at a pleasant 16 or so degrees, and sometimes it seems like the days stretch on forever in an endless haze of syrupy warmth. Besides near-daily trips to the cinema, Remus and Sirius ride bicycles, which Sirius complains aren’t nearly as exciting as _motor_ cycles, and they visit a record store in the town over, where Sirius buys so many albums he can barely carry them all home in one trip, and all the while Mr. and Mrs. Lupin seem not to notice the prolonged hours Remus and Sirius have begun to spend in the bedroom with the door locked. 

The truth is that they don’t really do much, though when they _do_ do anything, they have to play records at a suspiciously high volume in lieu of silencing charms (Sirius is fond of _Here Come the Warm Jets_ , and Remus is positive he’ll never be able to hear the ages-long guitar licks in “Baby’s On Fire” without thinking about over-the-pants handjobs. He decides that on the off-chance he meets Brian Eno, he’ll apologize for the association). There is a part of Remus that wants very badly to do with Sirius what he has been fantasizing about since he figured out how sex between men worked, but there is another part of him that is still desperately fearful of somehow breaking the spell that’s settled over them. That there could still be some moment where Sirius will come to his senses and flee from this, whatever it is. Mostly he just likes to lie in bed with Sirius, especially in the mornings, slipping in and out of sleep until the sunlight across the bed gets too warm to be comfortable. He tells himself that this is good, that Jo was right, that there is no reason for shame. It’s difficult, but he tries.

Sirius isn’t nearly as subtle as he thinks he is, Remus reflects one August morning as they lie in bed. He watches Sirius’s hand as it inches towards the hem of Remus’ T-shirt, moving underneath the worn blue fabric to touch Remus’ belly and the light hair that runs down from his navel. Sirius’ eyes remain closed, as if Remus is really going to believe that he is doing all of this in his sleep. 

“You’re not fooling anyone, Padfoot,” he says quietly, hearing the grin in his own voice.

“Hmm?” Sirius feigns waking up, going so far as to yawn into Remus’ side. He glances upwards, smiles, the picture of innocence, before looking back down and pretending to be shocked by the location of his hand. “Hmm, how’d that happen?”

“You’re insatiable,” Remus says.

“I thought I was incorrigible?” Sirius says, pushing his hand further up Remus’ torso. His fingers are impossibly gentle against the scars, but Remus knows that this time it is more than just the sweet, comforting movements that Sirius makes against Remus’ skin when he is actually asleep in the dead of night. 

“Maybe just impossible,” Remus replies, trying to keep his voice steady as Sirius pinches his nipple. “Okay, okay, enough,” he says.

Sirius stops, lays his hand flat on Remus’ chest, and scrunches his face up in an appropriately melodramatic expression of disappointment. “Absolutely no fucking fun,” he says with a pout. He begins to remove his hand from underneath Remus’ shirt when he suddenly sits up and starts tickling Remus, jabbing those once-gentle fingers into his armpits. Remus yelps in protest, laughing, but Sirius refuses to relent. He crawls onto Remus’ lap and pins his wrists against the pillow, dangling his hair in Remus’ face so the ends brush infuriatingly against his skin. Remus squirms, gasping out a laugh, and cries, “Uncle! Uncle!” 

Sirius stops and sits back, keeping his hands on Remus’ wrists. “Remember how we always used to get into tickle fights in first year?” he says.

“Yeah, for about a month.” Remus says, slightly out of breath. He tries to focus on the memory rather than his own half-hard cock. “Then you and James and Peter moved on to just punching each other.”

“It was the mature thing to do,” Sirius sniffs. He grins down at Remus. “You never wanted to join in, but we always made you.”

“Story of my life,” Remus replies. 

Sirius makes a half-humming, half-growling sound in the back of his throat and leans down so his nose almost touches Remus’. “But you like it, yeah?” he whispers. 

Remus hopes that even this close to his face Sirius can see him roll his eyes. “Yes,” he says, resigned.

“Really?” Sirius is practically breathing into Remus’ mouth at this point, which he probably shouldn’t find as hot as he does, especially considering the fact that neither of them have brushed their teeth yet this morning.

“Yes, really,” Remus says. “Almost always. Jesus.”

Sirius smiles against Remus’ lips before he kisses him. Remus inhales sharply. His head still swims slightly at the sound of their breathing together as they kiss, the way Sirius’ breaths get more and more erratic as he approaches orgasm. 

“D’you want me to put on a record?” Sirius says into Remus’ neck, which Remus takes to be a question of how long they plan to be in bed. He sits up on his elbows to watch Sirius kneel next to the cardboard box of albums. In just an undershirt and his boxers, head bowed over their ever-growing collection of music, Sirius looks very much like a boy and very much like a man. Remus feels a surge of something beyond lust within him, though he is afraid to call that something by any knowable name. He remembers watching the gymnasium scene in _Gentlemen Prefer Blondes_ when he was younger, where Jane Russell dances through crowds of half-naked men while singing about love, and feeling something similar deep in his gut, fright and fascination. Sirius pauses with Led Zeppelin’s third record in his hand, fiddling with the trick album cover. He glances up.

“What?” he says.

Remus feels his smile go wobbly. “Nothing.”

Sirius stands and takes the record out of its sleeve. “No, really. You’re looking at me all weird.” He carefully places the record on the platter of the turntable, drops the needle onto it, and turns back to look at Remus. He stands slouched, shy, at the foot of Remus’ bed as “Gallows Pole” begins to play. 

“I just — ” Remus wants to say the right thing, but the words don’t come. There aren’t any words that could describe Sirius, and Remus knows a lot of words. “Is this the B-side?”

Sirius shrugs. “I like the B-side better. It’s more…” He ducks his head. “Well I like ‘Tangerine’ anyway.”

Remus smiles. “You’ve gone soft,” he says as Sirius climbs back into bed with him.

“You wouldn’t say that if I looked like Jimmy Page.”

“No, he’s soft, too. All the rockstars are, I think, secretly. Movie stars, maybe not so much, but rockstars definitely. Besides, you’re better-looking than Jimmy Page.”

Sirius glances up at him. “If only I could play guitar! We could totally put Zeppelin out of business. You can be Robert Plant. James is John Bonham, obviously. And I guess Peter can be John Paul Jones.”

“You sure you don’t want James to be Robert? He and Jimmy are sort of the face of the band.”

“Nah,” says Sirius, reaching up to tangle his fingers in Remus’ curls. “He’s not pretty enough to be Robert.”

“Oh, thanks,” Remus says sarcastically. “I’m glad I’m prettier than the man who still thinks excessive flatulence is funny.” He closes his eyes to focus on the sensation of Sirius’ fingers against his scalp. 

They do a bit of that for a while, kissing and touching each other, and Remus feels like he could probably do it forever: lie under the warm weight of Sirius’ body as he sucks on the underside of Remus’ jaw. He almost feels guilty, because it seems that they always end up with the same position where Sirius is doing everything, though Sirius doesn’t really seem to mind. Remus sits up slowly, holding Sirius flush against him until he is sitting in Remus’ lap, legs stretched out behind him on the pillow. Sirius takes advantage of the new position to rid himself of his undershirt, letting the fabric slide easily off his shoulders with a tug.

He looks down into Remus’ upturned face. In the dusty light of the late-morning sun, Led Zeppelin’s softer side droning comfortingly in the background, Remus thinks that Siriushas never looked more lovely. He catches the thought as it passes through his mind, and stifles a laugh against Sirius’ shoulder.

“What?” Sirius says. 

“I was just thinking that you look lovely.”

“Lovely! I’m wounded, Remus Lupin. I have never been lovely a day in my life.” 

“So you’re allowed to say I’m pretty, but I can’t call you lovely?”

“I didn’t say _you_ were pretty, I said Robert Plant is pretty. Or prettier than James, I guess.”

“The implication was there,” Remus says. “And why are you always talking about James, anyway?” 

“Who else have I got besides him and you? I lead a very boring life,” Sirius says, and Remus knows it’s meant to be a joke, but it doesn’t quite sound like a joke. 

“There’s Peter…”

“Not really an aphrodisiac.”

“And James is?”

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Moony,” Sirius says. He leans in to kiss Remus again, but before he can, Remus shifts out from under him and gently pushes on Sirius’ shoulders to guide him into a lying-down position. Sirius turns his head to the side slightly to look at the hand that Remus has placed there, within inches of his ear, before he glances back up at Remus.

Remus whispers the lyrics as Robert Plant sings them in his unmistakeable high-pitched wail: “You’re the finest dog I knew, so fine.”

Sirius’ eyes squeeze shut as he laughs. When he is very old, Remus predicts, he will only have laugh lines, whereas Remus will have a permanent look of consternation etched into his brow; they will balance each other out. It’s not the first time he has thought of the future like this, as a vision of domesticity with Sirius always just out of frame, mischievous even in middle age. It makes Remus’ chest ache, because he knows that’s what he really wants: more than the sex, more than the knowledge that someone likes him back, he wants Sirius, plain and simple, in any form. He kisses Sirius then, pressing his hips down.

The album reaches its bizarre, bluesy end and Remus pulls back. They stare at each other, listening to the soft _click_ of the needle lifting from the record and the arm returning to its stand, a pleasant sound that Remus associates with the simultaneous satisfaction and disappointment of a good album ending. He presses his palm against the front of Sirius’ boxers, rather damp with pre-cum. 

“Sirius, I — ”

Sirius groans and shifts under Remus’ hand so the pressure against his cock increases. “This is taking too long,” he says, not unkindly. 

“Fuck you,” Remus says, laughing, but he slips his hand into Sirius’ underwear anyway. This part is still strange and new, too, touching Sirius proper instead of over fabric.

“This whole _thing_ took too long,” Sirius adds, though the last part of the sentence gets cut off as Remus starts to stroke slowly.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean,” Sirius says through a shuddering breath, “this. You and me.”

Remus removes his hand from Sirius’ pants and Sirius thrashes briefly at the loss, though he continues his train of thought as Remus kisses at his neck. Remus feels the vibration of Sirius’ voice against his lips and tongue and he thinks he might go mad with lust if he weren’t focusing on what Sirius is actually saying.

“Like, ages, Moony,” Sirius mutters as Remus kisses down his chest. “I’ve  —  it’s been you for ages, I’ve always wanted — ”

Remus stops, chin hovering over Sirius’ groin, to meet his gaze. “You’ve wanted what?” he asks, playing dumb, wanting Sirius to say it because he can’t possibly utter the words himself. Struck by a sudden boldness, he pulls down Sirius’ boxers. His cock springs forth, and Remus thinks about how silly it is, how silly sex is, that weird, sticky slide of skin against skin, and how wonderful. A lot like Sirius.

“I’ve wanted _you_ , gods,” Sirius says, probably louder than he ought to, especially since their background music has long since been over. He wriggles out of his underwear, dropping the shorts on the floor, and then he is completely naked on Remus’ bed and Remus’ brain stutters like film caught in the projector, whirring madly, because this is still new and he still can’t quite comprehend it. He climbs off the bed and restarts the record, because if he’s going to take this risk and actually blow Sirius, Remus doesn’t want him to have to be _too_ quiet.

Kneeling back on the bed between Sirius’ legs, Remus watches Sirius’ face for any reservations, but he only sees impatience, which he supposes might be Sirius’ second-most frequent expression besides laughter. He presses a kiss to Sirius’ inner thigh, and he feels the muscles there twitch. 

“Please, Remus,” Sirius hisses. 

Even stranger than holding Sirius’ cock in his hand is having Sirius’ cock in his _mouth_ , but Remus supposes it’s worth it for the hugely dramatic sigh of relief that Sirius huffs out. Remus isn’t really sure what he ought to be doing, though it probably doesn’t matter to Sirius, who has clamped his own hand over his lips in an effort to remain quiet as Remus begins to move his head. Despite his hand and the whine of Jimmy Page’s guitar across the room, Remus can still hear Sirius muttering to himself under his breath, mostly nonsense, but he catches his own name every so often and Remus has to stop himself from groaning at the sound. 

“Moony,” Sirius whispers. Remus looks up at Sirius, and it’s a weird angle but he still looks beautiful because of course he does. His face and chest are flushed beyond belief, sweat beading underneath his hair where it lies across his forehead. Remus speeds up, trying to fit more of Sirius in his mouth, and puts his hand down the front of his own underwear. 

“Moony, oh gods, Moony,” Sirius repeats thinly, insistently, and then he comes. Remus coughs as he attempts to swallow. The bitter substance ends up half in Remus’ mouth and half across Sirius’ belly and on the sheets and Remus wants to die he is so ashamed, he can’t even do this properly, but then Sirius is pulling him up to kiss him, filthy, open-mouthed kisses, as if he actually wants to taste himself on Remus’ tongue. 

Sirius keeps mumbling Remus’ name breathlessly as he yanks down Remus’ boxers, licking his hand before curling his fingers around Remus’ aching erection. 

“I’ve wanted you for so long, Moony, I thought I would never have you,” Sirius whispers into his ear, and Remus wants to say _Me, too_ , but he finds he cannot speak, only sigh as Sirius strokes him, which is how it tends to be with them. “I thought I would live my whole fucking life without ever having you like this.”

“Sirius,” Remus says helplessly, because what else is there to say? 

“Moony,” Sirius murmurs in reply, and Remus gasps as he comes over Sirius’ fist, panting jerkily. Sirius lifts his hand to the light, watching the viscous material come apart between his fingers. Remus would find it crass, but it’s Sirius studying _his_ come with such a strange fascination that Remus can’t help but feel intrigued. Then Sirius puts his fingers in his mouth.

“Stop that,” Remus says, embarrassed.

“Why? You tasted mine,” Sirius says. He wipes his hand on the bedsheets, and Remus tells himself not to cringe. “S’not bad. I’ll do you next time, yeah?”

Remus breathes in deeply and tries to fathom such a thing. “Fuck. Okay,” he says.

Sirius takes his unsoiled hand and presses it to Remus’ forehead, smoothing out the furrow in his brow. “You always look so worried,” he says.

“One of us has to,” Remus replies.

“Maybe,” Sirius says. There is still a lingering redness across his cheeks. “Does a number on a bloke, you know, always seeing his lover look so nervous.”

Remus blinks. Lover? This strikes him as a very sacred word, something you find in poetry rather than real life, something you are allowed to say only when you are old and wise.He has tried it on privately, in the bath, whispering it to himself: _Sirius and I are lovers._ And he supposes it must be true if they’ve both said it now. He admires the way the words slip out of Sirius’ mouth so easily, how in spite of everything he is not afraid, not of this, not of anything. 

“What are we going to do when we go back to Hogwarts?” Remus says. He reaches over to his nightstand to grab a handful of tissues. He wishes he had a glass of water and clean pants, but the appeal of staying in bed with Sirius wins out over his desire to be clean, as it often does. 

Sirius lies down next to him, never one to be bothered by a mess. “You’ll probably still be worried. You’ll definitely keep making references to films none of us have seen, because you like feeling superior, you bugger. I guess I’ll have to figure out where to go for winter hols, ‘cause I doubt my parents will welcome me back with open arms.”

“You could stay with me,” Remus says.

“You don’t think your parents will think I’ve overstayed my welcome?”

Remus thinks for a moment. “No, I think they rather like it with you here. But they might not like it so much if they knew we were shagging.”

Sirius grins. “We’ll just have to be sneaky, then.”

Remus doesn’t smile back, lost in his thoughts again. “Do you want to have to sneak?”

“Not really. Not around James and Pete,” Sirius says after a moment of contemplation. 

“Are we going to tell them, then?”

“James knows,” Sirius says suddenly.

“What?” Remus is flabbergasted. 

“Erm, that was part of why I went to see him. You know, after the moon. I, er — I needed advice. I didn’t know what to do.”

“And what did James say?” Despite his shortcomings, James doesn’t strike Remus as a bigot, except maybe when it comes to which Quidditch teams a person supports. 

“He said that I should stop being such a twat and just tell you,” he mumbles.

“Ah.” Remus looks down at Sirius, naked and curled up at his side in a post-sex haze of sleepiness and sweat, and thinks, _Okay. This is okay._ He loops a strand of Sirius’ hair through his fingers and wonders if this was Sirius’ plan all along, if he was drawn to him on some subconscious level, if he was telling the truth when he said that he’d wanted Remus for ages. If Sirius would continue to want him for another age. Remus tries very hard to imagine a world in which he does not want Sirius and finds he cannot.

Sirius stretches an arm around Remus’ waist, snuggling closer despite the heat. This time he actually might be asleep, but Remus isn’t sure. He continues to play with Sirius’ hair, listening to the sounds of him breathing. It seems a long time ago that he showed up on the Lupins’ back stoop, shaking with exhaustion, and an even longer time ago that Remus first looked at Sirius and felt something within him twist. 

Remus tries to picture the scene as it would appear in a film, the way he sometimes does: an extreme high angle of the two of them in bed, just from the shoulders up, the coy sort of image that directors always use to imply sex. Sirius would look appropriately glamorous and debauched, he thinks, while he would just look ordinary, which is fine by him. The lighting would be soft, natural, caught in Sirius’ hair and strewn across the soiled bedsheets. The score would swell and the screen might flicker. Perhaps the audience would just think of them as inscrutable, like Antoine at the end of _The 400 Blows_ , staring directly into the camera after running for so long. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> baby's on fire by brian eno  
> https://youtu.be/nItuhuY1U04
> 
> tangerine by led zeppelin  
> https://youtu.be/_0Auvlsv860
> 
> bron-y-aur stomp by led zeppelin (aka the song remus quotes, which IS in fact about a dog)  
> https://youtu.be/oC-9aEf0Q-A
> 
> "anyone here for love" scene from 'gentlemen prefer blondes'  
> https://youtu.be/1YY6Iw4afRk
> 
> final scene from 'the 400 blows (les quatre cents coups)'  
> https://youtu.be/a4jGNoag_1g
> 
> thank you for reading, etc, etc. <3

**Author's Note:**

> title is a song by pansy division because i am incapable of coming up with my own titles and i simply love to make relatively obscure references to 1990s gay rock groups! :-)


End file.
